


Volumetry

by moonblossom



Series: Pyrexia [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha!Omega!John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Fisting, Fluff, Intersex, M/M, Omegaverse, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-16
Updated: 2013-11-16
Packaged: 2018-01-01 18:39:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1047265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John did tell Sherlock that he wouldn't mind participating in the occasional experiment. He'd just like a bit of advance warning, please.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Volumetry

**Author's Note:**

> It's my birthday, and I was in the mood for some fluffy porn. My backwards present to you all is this little romp. I also think this 'verse needed a bit of happy smut after the last story.
> 
> Thanks to Urban for the swift beta, as always. <3

There's a sweet, heavy feeling suffusing John's limbs, as though he's been filled with honey. He sinks into the mattress, moaning loudly as Sherlock flicks his tongue over the aching head of John's cock.

"Christ, Sherlock, you fucking tease," John manages to mumble. Or possibly he's spouting nonsense that just sounds like words in his head. It's hard to tell at this point.

His internal muscles are aching, clenching and unclenching and finding nothing. He's desperate to be filled, but Sherlock is having none of it. John's sure he can feel the bastard smirking around the thickness of his shaft.

John rolls his head against the pillow, sweat trickling down one temple and along his neck. Between the cloud of his heat and the haze of his arousal, it's impossible to tell how long Sherlock's had him here at his mercy. Ten minutes? An hour? Does it even matter anymore? All John is aware of is the tension in his muscles, the throbbing ache at the base of his prick, the burning need to come.

Sherlock wraps one hand around the thick ring swelling at the foot of John's cock, squeezing the beginnings of his knot tightly, and John bucks. Sherlock takes the head of John's erection deeply into his mouth, and John shouts. It's glorious, it's perfect, and it’s not nearly enough. He thrusts his hips without meaning to, his cock seeking further heat and warmth in the moist, demanding chasm of Sherlock's mouth.

As John shifts, he feels the familiar slippery slickness between his arse cheeks, and for a moment his cheeks burn with a combination of shame and arousal. He shakes his head, groaning as Sherlock's tongue finds the ridge of a particularly thick vein below his fraenulum. Fuck the shame.

"Sh..." he pants out. "Sher-- lock. Fuck me. I need you inside of me."

With an obscene slurping noise, Sherlock pulls off his cock and John hisses. Eagerly, Sherlock grabs his hips and yanks them forward, rolling John slightly onto his back. John feels thoroughly exposed, looking down and staring at Sherlock's head like this. Sherlock is studying John's arsehole, slick and open as it undoubtedly is. John's view of Sherlock is obscured by his own cock, thick and heavy and nearly puce with blood, leaving a filthy glistening trail every time it bounces against his torso.

Sherlock is still nestled at the foot of the bed, with no apparent intention to move up. John's thoughts, still blurry and fragmented with desire, manage to put together one logical chain, and he wonders how Sherlock's going to fuck him from down there. He's about to try to voice his concerns when he sees the bottle of lube. Something about it sends a spike of lust through his body and he takes his own cock in hand, stroking it lightly without even realising it.

"Uhh, Sherlock? I, uh. Didn't think we'd need that. Omega bits, remember?"

Sherlock sits up and rolls his eyes, but John notes that he's still smiling, his cheeks gorgeously flushed and red.

"Everyone needs lubricant sometimes, John." Sherlock looks down, apparently noticing John's hand around his cock. John makes to move away, feeling guilty, but he's not quite sure why. "No, John, don't stop." Sherlock watches for a moment and John shivers, squeezing himself tightly and rolling his hand over the bulbous head, spreading his pre-come around. He's luxuriating in it, putting on a bit of a show for Sherlock's benefit, and it seems to work. Sherlock squeaks out an abortive, adorable moan before flopping back down onto the bed.

"You just keep doing that. I want you aroused and relaxed and comfortable. Do not, under any circumstances, allow yourself to orgasm."

John bites his lip, squeezing his shaft tightly. His hips buck up again, and Sherlock takes advantage of the movement to slip a pillow under there. Without thinking, John braces one foot against the mattress and lets his knees fall open. Sherlock remains immobile, studying John's most intimate bits as though he's a particularly interesting textbook. There's a nagging thought in the back of John's mind, cutting through the cloud of hormones, that he should feel vulnerable and flayed open, but all he actually feels is eager enthusiasm. Whatever Sherlock's plotting, it's bound to be incredible.

"All I ask, John, is that you relax and trust me, and that you give me ample warning when you're about to climax."

It's an odd request, but John mumbles out an assent. Of course he trusts Sherlock. Possibly beyond his better judgement, but he does.

His hand keeps a slow, steady pace on his prick as Sherlock leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of John's thigh. The gesture is strangely tender and gentle, and John's heart beats erratically for a moment before settling back into its furiously excited thrum. With his free hand, John reaches out and ruffles Sherlock's hair.

Thus disarmed, John very nearly melts into the bed at the first brush of Sherlock's fingertips around the clenched muscle of his arsehole. He moans loudly and bites down on his lip. Slow but firm, Sherlock slips one finger into John's passage. He's already somewhat slick with his own moisture, but the finger glides in with no resistance whatsoever, and now John understands the presence of the lube.

Sherlock slips another finger in, rocking his hand gently to slide them both in and out of John's tight passage.

The ring at the base of John's cock swells further, well on its way to forming a knot, and John squeezes it tightly, groaning deeply at the pleasure the pressure causes. He's still so bloody close, and so bloody far. He badly needs to come, but if he does he might just die.

There's an increase in pressure, a tight pinch and a wriggle, and John's opening stretches, feeling almost alarmingly full.

"Sherlock?" It's meant to be a question but it comes out as a whine.

"Three fingers, John. It's beautiful, you should see yourself."

John wriggles against the bed, shaking his head. He never thought he'd find a mental image of _himself_ particularly arousing, but Sherlock's fascinated, hushed tone makes John feel as though he's the most interesting, gorgeous thing in the world, and damn if that's not easy on the ego.

"Keep. Going." John pants out. He spreads his legs further, trying to spur Sherlock on, and picks up the pace on his own cock. At this point he's got one hand clamped firmly around the aching knot at the bottom and one hand rolling repeatedly over the crown. His breath is coming in rapid flutters, barely deep enough to bring him the oxygen he needs to function. But if anything, it's all heightening his senses. His heart is pounding so furiously behind his ribs that John can't even differentiate the beats anymore; it's all a steady hum. If this goes on too much longer, he may very well black out.

Thankfully, Sherlock can't seem to hold out much longer either. He rocks his hand out slowly, and the stretch as he slides it back in is completely glorious. John can feel the ring of muscle at his anus burning slightly, but it's a precious, delicious burn, and he wouldn't give it up for the world. His inner muscles are quivering, trembling around the pressure, as the widest part of Sherlock's hand slips inside of him. The heat of the stretch contrasts sharply with the soothing cool rush of the lubricant Sherlock's spreading around the opening.

John can't help the noises he's making now, moans increasing in pitch and volume with every minute shift of Sherlock's hand. He rolls his hips in a circle, around the hand that should feel like an intrusion and instead feels like it has belonged there his whole life. His own hands are simply gripping his cock now, not even stroking himself, because any increase in sensation would be _toomuchtoomuchtoomuch_.

It's Sherlock that pushes him over. Sherlock, moaning softly and murmuring incoherently against John's leg as he watches, transfixed, his own hand disappearing and reappearing slowly. John can barely see Sherlock now, but it's more than enough.

Sherlock rotates his hand minutely, and John is done for. He barely remembers his earlier promise to warn Sherlock that he's about to come. John tugs on those impossible curls, hoping it's enough. He shouts, far too loud, and feels himself clamping down, squeezing Sherlock's wrist with his internal muscles. His vision goes pale and blurry around the edges, turning the bedroom into an impressionist painting. His cock twitches violently, and John braces, expecting the violent splatter of ejaculate across his abdomen, but it never comes.

He's coherent enough to be confused by that, and he manages to raise his head off the bed to look up, only to see Sherlock, one hand still deeply buried inside of John. The other, however, is holding a graduated cylinder up, the opening barely containing the swollen head of John's prick. John rolls his eyes and lets his head fall back onto the bed, his breath slowing as the last of his desperately-needed orgasm wrings out of him.

He feels Sherlock slipping his hand slowly and carefully out of John's slack opening, feels a cool rush of air before the muscle begins closing in on itself, feels strangely bereft. And then he remembers the flask.

"Sherlock, what the fuck are you doing?"

Sherlock sits up and crawls up the bed so he's lying next to John. John is tired and limp and inordinately content, which he chalks up to hormones. Sherlock grins at him, wide and proud and not remotely apologetic.

"I was curious to see if your unique physiology affected your ejaculate volumes in any way."

"And you didn't think to, you know. Ask?" John gestures limply at the glass container and lets his hand flop back onto the bed. It's as though the bed now has its own gravitational field, and John is perfectly content to let himself be sucked into the mattress.

"Your lack of observation skills knows no bounds, John. I've done this for your last three orgasms. I thought you'd noticed, and since you said nothing about it, I assumed it was fine."

Tired, sore, and wary, John manages to lift his head and studies the row of four glass flasks lined up on Sherlock's dresser. They are paper labels on each one that John can't read but Sherlock's untidy scrawl is immediately identifiable, even from a distance. There is undeniably a small amount of spunk coagulating in each one. He stares at them for a moment when it hits him.

"You said my last _three_ orgasms. What's that fourth flask then?"

"That one's mine, I needed an Alpha control sample. I'm still going to need to collect one from you when your heat is properly over."

John groans theatrically and throws an arm over his eyes, his arm still feeling like heavy rubber. "Oh no, anything but that."

"Sarcasm doesn't become you, John." Sherlock snaps, but the irritated effect is lessened by the fact that he's currently burrowing his face into the side of John's throat.

"Now. In the interest of thorough scientific method... We just need to find another Omega. You know, to compare with. Do you think Anderson would volunteer?" John asks, smirking as he feels Sherlock shudder against him. He'd really rather not be thinking of Anderson right now, but Sherlock needs to be taught a lesson.

"John, so help me. If you _ever_ mention Anderson while I'm naked in bed again, it will be the last thing you ever do. I will ensure they never find the body." Sherlock growls, face still buried against John's throat. Smiling sleepily, John wraps one arm around Sherlock and runs his fingers through Sherlock's hair, tangled and matted. Sherlock licks the sweat off John's throat and John shivers, grinning.

"Based on my observations, your heat should be nearly over by now."

John tries to run through the past few days in his head, but it's all a bit of a blur. He nods, trusting Sherlock's judgment. "Probably. I already feel pretty sated."

"Excellent." Sherlock nips at John's ear, and John groans. He makes a feeble, half-hearted attempt to swat Sherlock away. "Do you think you would be able to orgasm again anytime soon?"

"Tomorrow, Sherlock. I need sleep. And food. And a shower. And then we'll talk." He eyes the row of flasks one last time. At some point Sherlock managed to put the most recent contribution on his dresser, and John hadn't even noticed him moving. He half-expects Sherlock to argue, but thankfully he's silent. John looks over and realises Sherlock has fallen soundly asleep. Grinning, he kisses Sherlock's forehead and pulls the blanket over the two of them, happily following suit.


End file.
